Who onward slowly moves with fearful feet;
Scarce daring to advance, nor daring to retreat;
Chill'd by the driving snow; more chill'd by dread,
He fears to find a grave at every tread ;-
Around the waste he throws his anxious eye,
And sees no welcome shade nor shelter nigh;
No busy hum of men his bosom cheers;
No distant watch-dog's bark delights his ears;
All things seem dead; he only left behind
The last survivor of the human kind.
Then Mem'ry's torturing pow'r his bosom rends,
He thinks of home, of family and friends-
Of home, which he may never more behold;
Of wife, he never more may to his bosom fold;
Of children climbing to her lap to dry,
Or kiss the swelling tear that fills her eye;
Anon, too, Fancy paints them at the door,
Eager to see if yet the storm be o'er;
Around their listening mother close they stand,
Strain'd every eye; stretch'd out each little hand;
Whilst by each little tongue is ask'd in vain,
When naughty Father will return again?
Rack'd by the scene, in agony of grief,
He groans a pray'r to Heav'n for quick relief;
Then onward o'er the wild and snow-clad waste,
By desperation driv'n, his footsteps haste-
His pray'r is heard! Beneath the mountain's crest
He sees, whilst rapt'rous transports fill his breast→
He sees the curling cottage smoke arise,
And to the door, secure of welcome, flies!
There, by th' enliv'ning blaze, the tempests roar,
Black blasts, and driving snows are felt no more.
There, too, the maiden home, her swain invites,
For love, amidst these scenes in truth delights,
Nor as in crowded cities seek disguise,
Asham'd, and shrinking from the parents' eyes,
Here on their loves th' approving parents smile,
Dread no deceit, suspect and fear no guile;
But as the growing flame well pleased they view
Their own past youth and scenes of love renew.
ON MRS. GROVE, OF LITCHFIELD CLOSE,
Written by her husband William Grove, Esq. and inscribed on an elegant Monument erected in the beautiful Cathedral of Litchfield.
GRIEF, Love, and Gratitude, devote this stone
To her, whose virtues blest a husband's life;
When late in Duty's sphere she mildly shone,
As friend, as sister, daughter, mother, wife.
In the bright morn of beauty, joy, and wealth,
Insidious Palsy near his victim drew;
Dash'd from her youthful hands the cup of health,
And round her limbs his numbing fetters threw.
Year after year her Christian firmness strove,
To check the rising sigh, the tear repress;
Sooth with soft smiles the fears of anxious love,
And Heaven's correcting hand in silence bless.
Thus try'd her faith, and thus prepar'd her heart
The awful call at length th' Almighty gave:
She heard-resign'd to linger, or depart-
Bow'd her meek head, and sunk into the grave.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE, OF LOTHERSDALE,
ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS,
Who had suffered a long confinement in the Castle of York, and loss of all his worldly property for conscience' sake.
"SPIRIT, leave thine house of clay;
Lingering Dust, resign thy breath !
Spirit, cast thy chains away;
Dust, be thou dissolved in death!”
Thus thy Guardian Angel spoke,
As he watch'd thy dying bed;
As the bonds of life he broke,
And the ransom'd Captive fled.
"Prisoner, long detain❜d below;
Prisoner, now with freedom blest;
Welcome from a world of woe,
Welcome to a land of rest!"
Thus thy Guardian Angel sang,
As he bore thy soul on high;
While with Hallelujahs rang
All the region of the sky.
-Ye that mourn a Father's loss, Ye that weep a Friend no more! Call to mind the Christian cross, Which your Friend, your Father bore.
Grief, and penury, and pain
Still attended on his way,
And Oppreffion's scourge and chain,
More unmerciful than they.
Yet while travelling in distress,
('Twas the eldest curse of Sin)
Thro' the world's waste wilderness,
He had paradise within.
And along that vale of tears,
Which his humble footsteps trod,
Still a shining path appears,
Where the mourner walk'd with God
Till his Master, from above,
When the promised hour was come,
Sent the chariot of his love
To convey the wanderer home,
Saw ye not the wheels of fire,
And the steeds that cleft the wind?
Saw ye not his soul aspire,
When his mantle dropp'd behind ?
Ye that caught it as it fell,
Bind that mantle round your breast;
So in you his meekness dwell,
So on you his spirit rest!
Yet, rejoicing in his lot,
Still shall Memory love to weep
O'er the venerable spot,
Where his dear cold relicks sleep.
Grave! the guardian of his dust,
Grave! the treasury of the skies,
Every atom of thy trust
Rests in hope again to rise.
Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls,
Soul, re-build thine house of clay:
Immortality thy walls,
And Eternity thy day!"
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